A Glaswegian Humping
by Zagzagael
Summary: Season 7 and Chibs wants to grab and run. Grab the Sheriff and run as far away as the two of them can get from Charming. SPOILERS.
1. Chapter 1

It had been one helluva day. And he was paying the price by fighting sleep as though it were a sudden death match – him and the Dream King - and he armed with only a dangerous blade held between his clenching teeth.

Mayhem. Juice. _And boys, there's a new Sheriff in town._ And thinking of knives, there was a lass who had a serrated edge to her, that one.

He wished he were drunk. Blind drunk. And not on blood, guts, and the perplexing elemental male-female pull he'd been wrestling for hours now. He wanted to pass out hard on good booze. But he couldn't risk the slowed reflexes brought on by a hangover. He needed to be sharp, on point, and lethal.

He turned onto his back, resigned to giving up the useless attempt at sleep. Breathing in and out, clearing his mind, easing his heart as much as he could given that it was heavy with black blood. He reached over, snapped on the bedside table lamp and grabbed the pack of smokes and his lighter. He lit a cigarette and held the smoke for a long time inside his lungs, it lightened him somehow. He went back up on an elbow and leaned over again for the uncorked Laphroig, swigging straight out of the bottle and closing his eyes as the whiskey burned, an alcoholic sin, on his tongue.

_Ally,_ she'd told him and it was an invitation. He had heard that loud and clear. But to what exactly? And for him, really? He'd seen it before, of course he had, they all had. The leather, the weapons, the bike. The absolute threat of the modern Viking whipped some women into a frenzy that would have frightened even the most stalwart of berserkers. On first blush, Jarry seemed as far away from that type as Tara Knowles had appeared to be. Rest her soul. But those were the ones to watch. The lightning strike that could burn an entire forest to the ground.

He never looked back with regret, but he found himself wishing he had handled the few moments they had shared in the parking garage differently. She'd surprised him that much he knew. Surprised the hell out of him and he wondered if she had seen that on his face. His face. She had actually reached up and thumbed the deep scar on the right side of his jaw and he didn't let anyone get that close to his ruined mouth. If she'd been a snake he'd be filled with venom. He'd let her in that close with no way of knowing she wanted to coil her long, lithe body around his.

And what did that look like exactly. He couldn't for the life of him fathom it. Even joking with Jax about her wanting a good Glaswegian humping, it was trash talkin', nothing else. But hadn't she'd started it by calling him out, calling him to her, and bending her beautiful face towards him when she called him Scotty. A nice touch that, acknowledging the blood that ran thick in his veins, the bones that made up his skeleton. He'd found that not a lot of Americans could tell a brogue from a burr.

Grease her palm, Jax had told him. 2k. Not chump change. She had appeared slightly impressed. For one wild inconceivable minute he had to look away from the wide open expression on her face, glimpsing the innocent girl she still was beneath the hardening exterior, had to fight the urge to tell her RUN. Don't do this. This way is only down. This way is only certain death, total destruction. But that wasn't on him. Cops and robbers, white hats and black hats, the good, the bad, and the ugly. She was a full grown woman and if she wanted to piss with the big dogs, who was he to growl and point her to the little girls room.

He pulled the last drag on the cigarette, narrowing his eyes against the French twist of smoke he recirculated through his sinus cavities. Out of the uniform, she had transformed. The butterfly from the cocoon. He thought of her ass, the waterfall of rich brown hair, that warm triangle of creamy flesh she had gifted him, the ragged edge of a gunshot wound. Okay. That was something. He wanted to put his mouth just there. Then drag the flattened length of his tongue up over her small tits, tip her head back hard with a fist in her hair and suck a bruise into the thin skin of her throat. Mark her up good. This is mine. Pull those pricey jeans off her and knee her thighs open, wide open, while he one-handed worked his own belt and button fly.

He snorted, a barking kind of out loud laugh into the silence of his bedroom, and drew his hand down over his face, finger combing the goatee against his chin. He smashed the butt of the cig into the ashtray on the bedside table. He took another long drink of whiskey, relishing the burn, shoved the bottle between his own legs, locked his fingers behind his head and relaxed back into the bed. He could close his eyes and see the ballsy flirtation, the gun on her hip, at the small of her back handcuffs dangling from her belt.

If this girl-woman thought she was ready for what he could give her, well, let her bring it. Hardcore. He wasn't about to step out of her heat. He needed the diversion. And unlike a whiskey hangover, his edges wouldn't be dulled. Her body would be the whetstone. He would be the knife.


	2. Chapter 2

He had begun to feel the heavy press of death upon him. It was a weight, a crushing. He was a man of mayhem, had the patch to prove it, but now he also had the devil breathing down his neck, forsaken angels falling to the wayside, and the reaper waiting at the end of the road. He was running out of tarmac.

They all were - full-throttle wide-open screaming down the highway and not a single one of them seemed to give a damn.

Meeting with White had gone so unfuckingbelievably bad. Off the charts bad. Automatic death sentence for cop killing, do not pass go do not collect $200. And take a regular beat down in the brig for it, and even the Nazis wouldn't want you for all the trouble you're worth, the heat you'd bring. Might as well peel your shirt off, bare your breast, and take a sharpened toothbrush handle straight to the heart.

In the two weeks since Tara's murder, he had only had one moment in which he could breathe, could distract himself, and that moment had been the minutes he had spent in the parking garage with Jarry.

To have Althea walk into the temp Clubhouse wanting answers to the cold-blooded gunning down of uniforms while his shoulders were breaking with guilt, responsibility, and his head spinning from the downward trajectory of his life, the existence of the club, was almost more than he could bear. And then, a hand grenade.

He hadn't even hesitated. Brothers in arms, and this woman. He plowed straight at her, had her body beneath his before a breath could be taken, shielding her, exposing every raw nerve of his body.

Outside, sirens and flashing lights, ambulances, Charming residents, and the battered Sons. She was shell-shocked, he could see that clearly. He was past all that himself. Wondered when he had grown a skin of armor, encased his mind in the helmet of warrior, and swagger-walked through the valley of death. He breathed out hard. Inhaled. Breathed out again and made the choice. He stepped up beside her.

She was shook. To the core. And something in this open-heartedness reached out to him. The humanity. He was made loyal, fierce, and protective. And suddenly she was calling all of those things out in him, just with the broken bend of her shoulder towards him, the tilt of her face, the upturned eyes, and the slight quiver in the bow of her upper lip. He could not look away. But he narrowed his eyes and brought consciousness into the next few moments. With great deliberation he stepped across the divide, right up against her, she was so much smaller than she appeared. He guided her back to her car, his voice firm and refusing to be swayed. She hesitated, speechless. He did not, the forward propulsion of his decision to walk away from the mess of his life. Pulling his gloves off one finger at a time. She acquiesced and he opened the door of her cruiser for her, then slowly walked around the front and climbed into the driver's side. She was still and mute.

She had become the wild animal and he the tamer.

He kept his senses honed and sharp. To close his eyes for even a moment would be to feel her body beneath his, the exploding world showering glass and brick down upon them. The end of times, choking on mortar dust and gunpowder. Her shoulders pressing up against his chest, the fine and trembling line of her spinal column a grounding wire for him. The adrenalin rush had hit him square in the solar plexus, right above the span of her shoulder blades, and became a bolt of electricity down the length of his cock. He knew in that moment that he would be in her bed, he would take her from behind, he would lean over her back and wrap her in his arms, bend her head back and reach for her mouth with his own mouth.

He reached across for her hand. Desperately in need of flesh on flesh contact, the warmth of her living blood just beneath the surface of her skin, the rounded curves of her knuckles, the bones that made up her skeleton.

"I need," she began and he knew exactly what she needed.

He nodded. She directed him with small movements of her free hand. He turned down a side street. He could see her roll her lips between her teeth, quieting herself. He turned down another street and they were in old town, he slowed and pulled the car up to a small bungalow. He parked, handed her the keys and got out of the car, walking around to her side and opening the door. He held out his hand and she reached for it, letting him pull her to standing. With her fingers tangled in his own, she led him beneath the yellow light of the street lamps, up the wide front steps to the porch, her hand an anchor tethering him to the world, holding him fast. She keyed open the front door with one hand, led him inside and he was on her.

She had her shoulders against the back of the door and flat-palming it beside her head, he slammed it closed, then pressed the long hard length of his body against the thin feminine shape of her. She arched up into him. The light was small and shadows of grey filled the corners of the ceiling and the floor. They were kissing, his tongue deep inside her mouth, tasting her teeth, her breath, his name.

"I'm bleeding," she told him, pulling her face away from his, her hands coming up to hold the sides of his head, fingers feeding into his ears.

"What?" he nearly screamed.

"Not like that," she said shaking her head, rolling her forehead against his.

He looked at her from beneath his lowered brows. "Tha' don't matter none to me."

She nodded and led their way out of the room, down a hallway and into a bedroom. She switched on a bedside lamp, the shade draped in a silk shawl, the light softened and surprising in the handsome space of her room. She tossed back the heavy bedding, and turned to him.

He felt her hands on his belt, tugging the leather through the buckle, fast fingers working the button fly of his jeans. He growled and reached for her clothing, she toed out of her boots, pressed the uniform pants off her slim hips, stepping out of them, and crouched low. Her head was pressed against his belly, his hands on the balls of her shoulders, and he watched her tug the tampon free and toss it into a trash can in the far corner. Then she stood and he reached down for the backs of her knees, coaxing her to trust his strength, she lifted her legs, wrapping them around his hips. Lighter than she looked, finely made. He lowered her to the mattress, still in his boots, she still in her dress blue shirt. With a deliberate movement, all thrusting and taut thighs he was inside her. The hot wet warmth of her body flooded through him, heating his own blood inside his veins, his heart pumping it to a fevered point. He was panting, searching out her mouth again. She was moaning, pliant in his arms.

He closed his eyes and willed everything except for her, the moment, the feel of her exquisite body, to fall away from him.

He slowed the frantic pace they had both set, controlling her with both hands on her jutting hipbones. Grinding his own hips to a slow completion, waiting for her. Her head fell back and he brought his lips to the smooth skin just below her ear, biting hard into the juncture of her jaw and throat and she came with a strangled gasp.

Slowly she lowered her knees, her thighs falling open around him, her body boneless, his arms wrapped all the way around her waist. With an unbearable reluctance he let her go but she didn't go far, turning and snuggling up beneath his arm, her head on his chest.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Later, they rose together, stripping off the rest of their clothing and in the shower she washed the dried, black blood off his body and he watched it turn glistening red again as it ran down the drain.


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing had belonged to him for so long it took him a few minutes to recognize the feeling. _Mine._ It vibrated up the long length of his spine, the bike rumbling hot and dangerous between his legs. The desire to possess. To own. To have and to hold. He gripped the throttle tighter, his palms slicked with sudden sweat, the need to grab onto something.

He had just left her at the port, another dark mission looming in front of him, a black sky of growing thunderclouds, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. Her mouth. Her lips on his lips. The steel that lined the insides of her bones and let her step right up into him and reach for his mouth with her own mouth. Kiss him in front of God and all his devils. Bold as day and bold women were something that heated him to the core. She had his blood simmering now. For her. The edgy feeling of being ignited by another person's body, being set on fire by another person's flame.

If it had been any other week, a different month, he would have said fuck all to Jax and his kingly decrees and dragged Ally by the wrist, bruises in her white flesh turning red as roses as the day wore on, and pushed her up against the corrugated wall of the building, kissing her until both their lungs were filled with the same air.

He knew his own worth, knew the currency of his life on the open market, and none of this was making sense to him. It surpassed the good-girl-gone-bad routine, the kiss took it out of the realm of a fetish, and the bribe put them on more even footing. What did she want from him. Of him.

And more than that, what did he want from her. For the first time in as a long a time as he could remember, the world smelled fresh, felt new. There was a promise around the edges of his peripheral vision. Something that seemed very much like an alternate road seemed to be opening in front of him. How long could he navigate the bloody tarmac before it took his own life. Not long he figured. He'd seen it in Bobby's face, the fear, he'd seen it in the set of Happy's shoulders, the resignation. He wondered what part of his own demeanor wore the mask of the Reaper.

At the first stop light, he missed the cycle of the signals and the lady in the cage behind him honked. He clocked the rear view on his handlebars, feeling the hair stand on the back of his neck, he was prepared to rip someone apart. But her face was not threatening, she was beeping him back to awareness. Wake up, Filip, wake up. The dream you're dreaming about this woman is only a dream. Bodies were going to fall. Lives ended and ruined. The world would go up in flames if Teller had his druthers. And it would rain ash. He nodded once, then roared through the intersection only to let off the gas and pull the bike over to the shoulder. He brought both booted feet down to the ground, rooting himself back to the earth, to his reality.

He had to get his head back in the game. He breathed through the twist in his guts, the cramping in his mind. He put her out of his thoughts. The long night they had shared, the way she had shut her bedroom door and somehow the world became just him and her and the space between their two bodies. The way in which her flesh clothed her skeleton, the scrape of her teeth, the fluttering of her eyelids, the long moan of his name. All of that had to be cast in darkness now. He breathed out hard, looking far down the road ahead of him.

With a wide banking swoop he was back out in traffic. His lips tasting of her.


End file.
